Cuban
by The Siren Calling
Summary: Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.


**Disclaimer: **only in my dreams…T.T

The end is just the beginning, isn't it? Yes, because life goes on, with or without you, and only your memory lives forever. But memories can fail sometimes… Moments though, moments will truly live on forever.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom never liked him smoking.

But she loved the way he always seemed to smell of cigar smoke, and peppermint, and something sweet and tangy and sour and bitter…until he died…

She always told him if he wasn't home by eight o'clock—she needed someone to push her on the swing—she might just think he was dead.

She was only joking then. Only joking…

It was a Friday. She could've been out there swinging for hours. And she was. But she was lonely. And she wasn't really swinging…sitting…not swinging…

Mom wondered where she was; she wondered if he had gotten there.

She pulled up in that old beaten down—ehem, third generation classic, that one pinkette never seemed to like—mustang. Another pulled up in a brand new Chevy.

She got out. He got out. They saw each other, waved. She looked at her little girl, sitting on a swing, lonely. He saw her too and slowed his pace.

Little by little he made it to you. Somehow mom guessed what this was about, but only after the second car pulled up to the park, and then there was a third, and a fourth…and maybe there was a fifth but she honestly couldn't remember…it was so long ago when she were 7…or was she eight?

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom didn't know where all of them were going.

And she loved the way they smelled when burnt. Every anniversary turned into every time she missed him—only after she'd been given that special pink Zippo of course.

Pink because it matched her hair.

Pink because her dad loved bubblegum, it was his quitting vice.

Tonight was one of those nights. One of those nights where she decided she'd walk by the park…and she'd told herself it was only because she wanted to see if Hinata was there. She'd be babysitting her little sister with Ino or another one of the girls.

She didn't see them, but she saw a boy. And he reminded her of a man, and a brand new Chevy, and a silver Zippo, and maybe a cigar or two.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had given up on finding out where they were going

And she loved how the late night interrogations of "have you been smoking" finally stopped. She loved how she didn't have to deal with saying "no" every five seconds to every question asked.

But she hated how her mom forgot about her. She hated how alone she felt.

She learned how to hate, and she learned how to dance, and to club, and to smoke, and drink without getting caught. How you're not supposed to take the back alley at night. How you're not supposed to pick a fight. She learned that when your best friend's a bartender you get awesome discounts.

A 17-year-old girl learned how to knock back a shot or two better than her 43-year-old mother ever could.

A 17-year-old girl learned that when you want more than a few drinks free you need to wear your shortest skirt possible, and you need to pile on the eyeliner.

Her mom taught her it was okay—unknowingly—to do whatever you want.

Her dad would've said don't do it.

But a 17-year-old girl has learned to ignore her conscience; even if it's the only piece of her dad she has left.

Her dad…what did her dad have…

And what would her mom say…

And what would I—no she—we—what would whoever that person is say?

Maybe nothing. Maybe that 22-year-old who's moved out and is making her own decisions wouldn't say anything. Maybe she would just snuggle into that cutie next to her and remember the scent of smoke and peppermint and something sweet, tangy, sour…or maybe even bitter…

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had nothing but an empty beer bottle.

Sakura had another boy.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had a box in the ground.

She was 62. Her mom was, that is. _She _was 36.

She still remembers it clearly.

She remembers the little black box—white was cheaper, but it just didn't fit her mom's personality, she was never pure enough to like white—it was plain and simple with no detail, no anything.

She went out and got drunk that night, found a boy. Did something. Then did the same the next few nights.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had a box in the ground.

She's getting older.

She's 50, looks 30, and she doesn't even try.

She's given up on trying.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had a box in the ground.

She was getting there.

2 friends had died—they were 80—in a car crash. She'd told Naruto he shouldn't be driving when he can hardly even **SEE**. Sasuke just happened to be with him too.

Sorry but the story has to end here.

R.I.P. Sakura Haruno. 94 years old. She was loved so much but she didn't really realize it. She didn't care much either. But she was loved so much. She'll be missed so much. But it's time to say goodbye…

Her…

Dad…

Had…

Her dad had…

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

She was 17 when she started making horrible decisions for herself.

She forgot how to listen to her conscience.

She forgot a lot of things.

And she wished she'd made better choices.

She wished her story could've been different. And maybe it would've been if she'd tried.

**(Every story has the potential to be turned into a great story—a phenomenal story even.)**

She was 17.

Sakura Haruno's dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom hated how he smoked—not just that he smoked, but that he did it all the time.

She said he was going to go up in smoke—die in flames.

He did.

He was a firefighter.

"R.I.P. Haruki Haruno."

He found her sitting on the swing from her childhood.

And it wasn't just a swing. It was _the_ swing. _The _swing she always went to no matter what.

He still remembers that four-year-old boy she yelled—sorry not yelled, but 'talked to in an angry voice'—at when he refused to move…

"Sakura."

"Shh."

"Sakura."

"I said shh! You are ruining the tranquility that is the swing set."

"Sakura. There are four-year-olds running around screaming everywhere around you."

"And maybe that's what I find so peaceful."

He took a second to look at her like the weird, delusional person she is—don't forget beautiful—then gave up and sat in the swing next to her.

He wished she'd open her eyes. People often said they were her best feature, and he couldn't agree more.

"See how calming it can be?"

"…Sure?"

"That's not a good answer Sasu-chan."

"Hn."

"Oh, shut up."

…

"You're a dork."

"I thought I was just weird."

"No."

"Hn."

He opened his eyes and gave her one of those did-you-really-just-say-that stares.

She nodded, and her eyes weren't even open to see it.

"Weirdo…"

"I think I'm going to take that as a compliment."

She found him sitting on her swing. Staring out over the beautiful part of the city.

"Sasuke."

"Hn?"

"I'm not going to tell you to move."

She took a seat in the swing next to him.

She wasn't in her seat like normal.

For once…and she smiled…

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

And Sasuke was the first boy she trusted enough to show him.

Sasuke was the first boy she trusted enough to be with her when she burnt one on the anniversary.

Sasuke was the first boy—after her dad—she'd said, "I love you" to.

Sasuke was the first boy, and the last boy, and the second, and the third.

He was the only boy.

And she loved that.

He loved her weird, random tendencies.

He loved everything about her.

He loved her love of Cuban cigar smoke—even though she'd never actually smoke one herself.

Her dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

Her mom had a house in the Hamptons.

She had a baby on the way.

He was worried sick about it.

Life was amazing.

Life is amazing.

Little Sayuri Haruno was sitting on a swing. But not just any swing. **The **swing.

The one she always had to use.

Her parents still remember the time when she yelled—sorry, not yelled, but 'talked to in an angry voice'—at a little four-year-old boy for using it. The boy didn't seem to mind much though.

Sakura's dad had a box of Cuban cigars.

It really doesn't have much significance.

It was just important to her.

She loved how he always smelled of some kind of exotic smoke, and peppermint, like the kind you get on Christmas, and something sweet and tangy and sour and bitter.

She loved.

And maybe that's all that matters.

**Smile it's over. =)**


End file.
